Of Flames and Firearms
by ShatteringDaybreak
Summary: With firearms, it's all about control: she holds death in her palms of her hands until it can't touch her anymore. But this, this is not control. This is holding the killing thing so it has power over him, and power over him is power over her. But she can't lower her weapon, because she made a promise. And even though it's killing her, she's going to keep it.


**A/N: Originally, this was meant to mimic another story of mine titled "Of Automail and Alchemy", but once I started writing, it didn't quite turn out the way I expected. If, however, you do enjoy this and have not read my former story, I suggest you do so, as they are quite similar in several aspects.**

Of Flames and Firearms

Riza can still remember the first time she picked up a gun, the day of her mother's wake. She'd been sitting on the edge of the porch, scowling moodily at the wild tufts of grass that sprouted from the corners of the steps, trying to ignore the cool spring breeze that plucked at her sweater. The droning chatter of well-wishers drifted through the door like a swarm of yellow jackets, causing Riza to clench her teeth tighter and wish that she could swat them all away. But she couldn't, because her father was sitting on the couch inside much like she was sitting here, only the muttered sympathies of the neighbors that filled their house didn't seem to bother him nearly as much. Perhaps he was in shock and couldn't hear them. Riza couldn't help feeling envious of that.

Riza sighed and drew her knees up to her chest, peeking over her folded arms to glare at one of the old oak trees that towered over the edge of the yard. The wake was pointless, honestly. They'd had a funeral, they'd said goodbye, now all they needed was to be left _alone_. It wasn't as though anyone in that house had actually known her mother well (even at seven, she'd been as cynical as they'd come). That privilege had been restricted to immediate family only, which meant that of all the bodies stuffed into their house, only two had the real right to mourn. And Riza wanted nothing more than to be left alone to do that.

A heavy thump drew her attention, and she turned to find that someone had ventured onto the porch behind her. Cranky Mr. Colbert, who lived in the house behind theirs, stood by the screen door looking very much like he wanted to be there even less than Riza herself did (and that was a truly impressive feat). He was a man in his late forties, with a salt-and-pepper beard and bronzed skin that spoke of hours of manual labor outside (that, and the various odd jobs he spent the weekends performing for the neighborhood). Crow's feet lined his eyes, but it was from an excess of scowling rather than smiling. An intimidating man, to be sure. But Riza was never one to be cowed by others, so instead of yelling at him or leaving, she decided to remain where she was.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the shuffling sounds of Colbert shifting his weight from side to side. He sounded uncomfortable, but Riza wasn't about to concern herself with that. He'd made the decision to come out here, after all. Finally, Colbert crossed the porch to sit next to her. Riza scooted over to make room, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him.

"I'm not gonna say sorry, or anything like that," he said gruffly, and Riza did look up at that. It was the first time someone had said anything like that to her, and strangely, it sounded better than any sympathy her neighbors had tried to shove onto her in the last hour. "'Cos you don't need to hear it," Colbert continued, staring out into the backyard. "It won't help you. This, however, "—he reached across his chest with one hand and dug around beneath his jacket— "this might." He pulled out something compact that fit easily into his hand, and as he drew it forward, Riza saw that it was a handgun.

It looked comically small in Colbert's huge, calloused hand. The steel gray muzzle winked brightly in the afternoon light, and though Riza knew rationally that she should be very frightened of a man who drew a gun in the presence of a child, she simply wasn't. Colbert, for all his gruff and bluster, was too well-known for that. She looked down at the gun, then looked back up at Colbert. "How's that gonna help?" she asked, sounding skeptical.

His chuckle was rough, like sandpaper. "Whenever I feel angry and frustrated, I often find that target practice helps me feel better."

"How do you know I'm angry?" Riza challenged.

Colbert gave her a piercing look. "You just lost your mother. You're angry. You're angry and upset and grieving."

Riza didn't ask how he knew this, but his words had her softening. "I've never shot a gun before," she admitted.

This didn't seem to faze Colbert. "Everyone's got to start somewhere." He stood up and tucked the gun back into his jacket. "Now come on, I'll take you to my shooting range and show you."

Riza nodded and stood up. "Let me tell my father." She trusted Colbert well enough (if it'd been creepy Mr. Walker from down the road, she wouldn't have moved an inch), but if anyone started looking for her while she was gone…well, that would raise trouble she didn't want. So after whispering a word in her father's ear (and another one in Mrs. Bell's from next door, since her father probably hadn't been paying attention), she followed Colbert off the porch and across the backyard.

Neither of them spoke as they walked first through leafy forest and then the waist-high grass of the field that separated their property. Soon, Colbert's sturdy little house emerged from behind a copse of trees, and he led her around the side to a squat woodshed. He fiddled with the shiny lock that hung from the latch before swinging the well-oiled doors open to reveal an arsenal of garden tools. A rack of rifles hung on the right wall, and it was this display that Colbert went to first. After carefully scanning the collection, he selected one from the bottom and pulled it out, along with a box of bullets that sat on a dusty wooden shelf next to the rack.

Riza frowned as she took in the rifle in his hands. "I thought I was gonna shoot the small one. Why'd you get the big one?"

Colbert spoke as he walked, leaving Riza to trail after. "Handguns are harder to handle, especially when you're small," he answered. "It's easier to start with a rifle in a sitting position." He stopped by a picnic table covered in sandbags that was set up in a corner of his yard, facing a wooden board nailed to a tree in the woods. A paper target with three colored rings was nailed to the board.

Colbert set down the box of bullets and laid the gun down before turning to Riza. "The first thing you oughta know is how dangerous these things are," he said seriously, looking her squarely in the eye. "Don't ever point 'em at someone else. Don't point 'em up in the sky. It goes off by accident, you can really hurt someone. Got it?"

Riza nodded solemnly. If his words were supposed to scare her, it wasn't working.

Colbert picked up the gun and pointed out the different parts, showing her how to load it and how to flip the safety on and off. He detached the scope and had her look through it, just to see what aiming was like. She sat down on the picnic bench and Colbert moved the sandbags around, nestling the gun into the indentations in the middle until the rifle was cradled snugly and fit right against her shoulder. He had her look through the scope again, but this time, he had her line up the crosshairs with the target and pretend that she was firing at it. A pair of earplugs dangled from a cord around her neck and a pair of safety glasses perched precariously on her thin nose.

"Remember to keep your breath even," he said, his rough voice tickling at her ear. "Too many people wanna seize up, get real tense when they shoot. That'll make you miss. What you gotta do is breathe in real steady, then fire when you breathe out. Can you practice that?"

Riza did as he said, finger tugging at the safety-locked trigger. She imagined a hole appearing in the target right where she wanted it to, and suddenly, pretending wasn't enough anymore. She pulled away and looked up at Colbert. "Can I shoot for real now?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face, then was gone in the next instant. "I think you're probably ready," he reasoned. He plucked a small bullet from the box on the table and loaded the gun for her. After propping it back up, he took a few steps back. "Remember to take your time."

After the earplugs were placed securely in her ears, Riza looked down the scope again and carefully nudged the rifle a little to the left, until the center of the target was resting between the crosshairs. Her body quivered with anticipation, but instead of letting the bullet loose early, Riza took a moment to breathe in and out, allowing most of her tension to drain from her body. She forgot about the wake, she forgot about her mother, she forgot about everything except herself and the scope and the trigger beneath her finger.

She flicked the safety off and rechecked the scope. Her shoulders loosened as her finger tightened, and on her next exhale…

_Crack. _

The butt of the gun twitched slightly with recoil. Riza pulled back and flicked the safety on again, removed her earplugs, and looked up at Colbert for his approval.

He nodded at her and jerked his head. "Well, go on then. See how you did."

Riza didn't need to be told twice. She ripped the glasses from her face and threw them down on the table before swinging a leg out and dashing for the tree with the target. As she skidded to a stop in front of it, her mouth split into a wide grin. The hole was just inside the center circle.

Heavy footfalls crunched a twig behind her, and Riza looked over her shoulder to see Colbert staring at the target, disbelief plain on his face. He blinked once, twice, then rubbed his jaw. Finally, he opened his mouth and said, "_Damn_."

Riza's smile grew even wider, and it wasn't until she went home hours later (with two targets holding an impressive scattering, for a seven year old) that she remembered her grief. It seemed that Colbert had been right all along.

She went back to his house the very next day, but he wouldn't retrieve the rifle from the shed. Instead, he clomped inside his house and came out with a slingshot and a bag of chalk, which he handed to her. "Sharpshooting isn't all about guns, y'know," he said, addressing the confused look on your face. "'Sides, it lets you do target practice at home, so you don't have to keep tromping over here."

Riza looked over the slingshot carefully, and though it wasn't a gun, it was still a beautiful piece. "Used to belong to my son," Colbert said shortly, answering the question written on her face.

"But won't he need it?" Riza asked.

Colbert's eyes seemed very far away as he answered. "No. No, he doesn't need it anymore."

Riza knew better than to ask another question after that. She took the slingshot without comment, and she began to practice. And practice. And practice.

Years later, as she stood in Colbert's backyard, holding the handgun that had sparked it all, she finally understood why he'd shown it to her. With shooting, it was all about control and precision, something she'd been sorely lacking back when she was seven. When she held a gun in her hands, she told the bullet where to go. She held the destruction in the palms of her hands, until it no longer had any power over her.

When she brought this up to Colbert, he'd simply snorted and shook his head. "You're reading too much into this, Hawkeye. Sometimes you just need to shoot the shit outta something to feel better." But the sparkle in his eye (the one he saved just for her) told her that maybe she was right.

At least, that's what shooting means to her. And even though she's done some horrible things behind the scope of a rifle, there is no place where she feels safer and more in control (well, maybe there's one other).

But this, this right here is _not _control. This is the furthest thing from it as can be. She isn't holding the killing thing in her hand so it has no power over her, no, she's holding in her hand so it's got power over _him_ (and power over him is power over her). She can't stop her hand from trembling, no matter how hard she grinds her teeth and tells her fingers to hold steady. They won't obey her, because they know this is wrong. But no matter how much she wants to lower the gun, she knows that she can't. Because she promised him.

Even though it's killing her.

She manages to pull the hammer back on the gun, and the soft metallic click echoes through the tunnels to stop the Colonel short. He looks up, fingers still poised to snap, and shoots her a sideways glare. "And what do you think you're doing?" he asks, his voice a growl.

"That's enough, Colonel!" Despite her desperate wish that she didn't have to do this, her voice remains as steely as ever. "I'll deal with him from here." Because Envy has to die, but not like this. It can't be like this.

"He's as good as finished," the Colonel says, eyebrows drawn together and eyes squinting in a hateful mask. "Lower your weapon." He looks ugly and wrong as he stands poised to crush the little homunculus, reminding Riza again of why this needs to be done.

"I can't obey that," she says, voice shaking a little. "Put your hand down."

He raises it higher, and blue sparks flash from his fingertips as his hand tightens. "_Dammit!_" he roars. "I won't ask again!"

Blue lightning races across the floor, and for a horrified second, Riza thinks he's done it, that she'll have to pull the trigger after all. But it's coming from the wrong angle, and the stone floor bucks underneath the Colonel's foot and sends Envy flying into Edward's hand.

The Colonel turns to glare at the young alchemist, and at Scar, who's standing by his side. "Ah, Fullmetal," he says, but his voice is so dark, darker than she's ever heard it. He extends a hand, reaching for the little green worm clutched in Edward's fist. "I'll be taking that."

Riza peers around his shoulder to watch Ed, whose eyes widen at the expression on the Colonel's face, and at the tone of his voice. He looks down at Envy, who struggles and whimpers in his fist.

"That is an order," the Colonel says, when it becomes obvious that Ed's hesitating. "Give it to me right now!" he cries, leaning forward and away from Riza.

Ed's face hardens. "No. I won't."

Blue sparks skitter across the Colonel's glove. Riza's hand tightens on the gun. The two alchemists glare at each other for a long, tense moment before the Colonel says, "That _thing_ deserves the worst death possible."

"No," Ed says stubbornly.

"Give him to me," the Colonel shouts, "or I'll burn up your hand along with him!" His fingers curl into a snapping position, and blue light flickers in the tunnel.

"Try it, then!" Ed cries, teeth bared in a show of defiance. "If it's a fight you want, fine! But first," –he throws out a hand to point at the Colonel— "maybe you should take a good look at your face! Is that the face you plan to wear when you're leading this country?" He barrels on, leaving the Colonel no time to answer. "Well, is it? Is that what you want to be, Colonel? Another monster?!"

The Colonel hesitates then, alchemic light still dancing through his fingers. Before he can say anything, Scar speaks up. "Are you becoming a beast?" he asks. "Giving into its passion? You can if you want to." And that has everyone stiffening in surprise, but Scar ignores them as he continues to address the Colonel. "I won't stop you from giving into revenge."

Ed whirls around, golden hair flying as he glares at Scar. "Hey!"

"What right do I have to stop someone from taking vengeance?" he asks, and Ed looks away. "But still, I shudder to think what kind of world a man held captive by his own hate would create, once he becomes its ruler." His words are sharp and rough, and he flings them into the air like daggers.

The Colonel jerks his head back in surprise, and just like how Riza knows when to pull the trigger, she knows it's her turn to speak. "Colonel!" she says sharply. "I can't let you kill him." She can still see blue sparks flying from his hands, and she knows that she's walking a very dangerous line. "That being said, I have no intention of letting him live. _I'll_ dispose of him."

The Colonel shoulder's tighten. "But I did it! I finally ran him down!"

Riza closes her eyes against the grief and anger in his voice. She knows how hard this undertaking has been for him, knows how many sleepless night he'd had to endure to find his best friend's killer. But she also knows without a doubt that this is not how it's supposed to be. "I know that!" she says, voice heavy. "But still…" Her hand is trembling. "But still…," she tries again, "you're about to do something reckless. This will not help, not your country or your friends. This is pure hatred," she says, and her voice is growing thick with fear and sadness. "And I will not let it take you." Even if she's got to be the one to pull the trigger, she'll do it. She promised, and though he's forgotten, she'll still follow through. "You're better," she says softly. "I know you're better than that."

The silence that follows is nearly unendurable. Riza can't see the Colonel's face, can't tell what he's thinking or what he might do next. All she can do is stand there, gun pointed at the back of his head, waiting for his next move.

With a sigh, he makes it. His shoulders slump suddenly. "If you're going to shoot me, shoot me," he says tiredly.

Riza rears back, startled. The resignation in his voice is an entirely different creature than his rough hate and anger. And then she registers what he's said, and despair floods her body. He's _asking_ her to do it now, and that's worlds away from having to pull the trigger against a rampaging Colonel. This one is tired and asking for it, and somehow, that's a million time worse.

He continues on. "But then, after you've done that, Lieutenant, what will you do?"

She bows her head, gun still pointed unerringly at him. The words come without thought. "I can tell you I have no intention of carrying on by myself. This fight will be my last. Once all of this is over, I'm going to end my life, and remove my secrets of flame alchemy from the world." She'd said she'd follow him into hell, after all, and Riza Hawkeye keeps her promises.

The Colonel's hand moves jerkily, and Riza watches him grimly. If he snaps, if he goes through with it, then her finger will squeeze the trigger and it will end. For both of them.

And he does it. He screams and he snaps, but it's into the tunnel to his right, where the flames thunder harmlessly. But even though he's thrown his flames away, Riza knows better than to let her guard down. She's too well-trained for that.

"That can't happen," he says quietly, and Riza barely hears him over the roar of the flames. "I can't…I can't afford to lose you." He pauses as the fire dies down. "What kind of madness is this?" His voice is thick with misery and disgust. "Scolded by a child. Lectured by a man who has been my enemy." He turns his head and peers over his shoulder to look at her. "And you."

Her eyes widen slightly as he turns around, and she wishes with every fiber of her being that this means he's snapped out of it because she knows that she can't shoot him in the face. Not when he's starting at her. Riza's strong, but she's not that strong.

"I've done it again," he says. "I've hurt you." Thick strands of black hair fall into his eyes, but Riza can still see the anguish there. "How foolish can one man be?" He looks away and squeezes his eyes shut, as though hiding from the truth of what he's almost done. After a moment, he walks over to her and wraps a hand around the gun and lowers it. Riza's eyes follow the movement.

"Please forgive me," the Colonel says. He can't quite look her in the eye.

Before she can answer him, his knees give out underneath him, and he falls with a thud to the ground. He sits there, head bowed and shoulders shaking, and Riza knows everything's going to be fine. The tight bands that have been wrapped around her chest since she lifted the gun finally start to unravel. She can breathe properly for the first time in minutes. The first inhale sounds suspiciously like a sob.

She falls to her knees in front of him, hands still clasped weakly around the gun. He looks at her then, just looks at her, but that's all he needs to do. They exchange so much with that one glance, so many wordless things that they've never said, but both know all the same. He's okay now. They're okay.

Everything's under control.

Later, when everything's gone to hell in a hand basket, she still feels that way. Her throat's one alchemic reaction from painting a red grin on her neck and the Colonel's literally blind, but they're together and they're fighting.

She stands with her back pressed against his chest, right arm extended out to guide his. Her guns have been forgotten, and while that would normally itch at her like rough wool, she's got something better now. She's got the Colonel.

He's the firing pin and the gunpowder and the bullet; she's the grip and the scope and the trigger. Together they make a gun better than one she's ever fired before, and even though they're surrounded by smoke and bullets and screams, she feels calmer than she ever has in her entire life.

With an unwavering voice, she calls out distances and angles and targets. The Colonel tenses and moves and adjusts underneath her, and she guides him when he overcorrects. And even though she shouldn't feel this calm as part of a two-person firearm, she knows that there's no one else she'd rather be by her side.

With a savage spark in her eye, she pulls the trigger: "Fire."

He's only too happy to oblige.


End file.
